


Gelera Abi

by erobey



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erobey/pseuds/erobey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written to accompany the MPA awards. This is the story that inspired Meril Thafn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gelera Abi

## Gelareh Abi [Blue Eyes] (Parsi)

by erobey  
erobey@gmail.com

Written for the MPA 2005 Awards ceremony. unbeta'd.

Disclaimer: no claim is made to anything to do with JRR Tolkien and his works.

Summary: a first person account of a modern-day visitor's trip to Valinor during the ceremonies mentioned above. This is the short piece that inspired Hîr O Meril Thaifn.

Gelareh Abi [Blue Eyes] (Parsi)

Name for me a city of great beauty, one that steals the breath and empties the mind of all coherent thought as every available neuron slips into a golden fugue and attempts to record forever the sheer majesty of perfection in its symmetry of functional form and transcendent glory. What place would you choose? Rome, Paris, or Venice? Would it be Moscow, Cairo, or Beijing? What of more ancient places, Cusco, Thebes, or Athens? It matters not; there is nowhere on this planet where the effrontery of over population coupled with zealous avarice has not marred even the best efforts of the most gifted artists and engineers.

Speak to me not a word of tall concrete obelisks that are but blades of grass next to the peaks of even the most elderly of eroded mountain chains. I will not hear about the sophistication of stark lines and unimaginative arches devoid of ornament, empty of life. There is nothing here worth seeing, and thus we do not see what is here: the greedy bleakness of extravagant glass and metal monuments to commerce, the decrepit dilapidation of poverty's institutional domiciles, the ostentatious vulgarity of wealthy estates, the tritely cloned abodes of the generic middle-masses. Not even my own beloved Mazar-i-Sharif and its Blue Mosque, so worn and weary from one war after another, can truly satisfy the hunger within my soul to look upon perfection.

It is an unending torment, for I know places do exist so grand that they defy description with the meagre collection of adjectives available in all of human-kind's numerous vocabularies, from modern English to ancient Dari.

The search for Eden, Shangri-La, Arcadia, Elysium, Heaven, Zion, Paradise, the House of Songs, and a host of other names for the same conceptual locus, has occupied the human spirit since before recorded history. Why should I be different? Yet, I am not like those others, seeking some realm for the naked fire of the soul surrounded by the infinite essence of an omnipresent and omniscient God. I seek to return to the status that is rightfully mine, to demand an account of my abandonment here among the lesser children, forced to become little more than one of them.

I search for the Straight Way through the Great Sea to the shores of Aman. To Valinor I am drawn, for my people are descendants of Istar Luin, the Blue Wizard, Gelareh Abi [Blue Eyes], a Maia sent by Iluvatar to Middle-Earth late in the Third Age to aid the free peoples vanquish the Darkness of Melkor's disciple once and for all.

So little was ever written of her, only that she headed east upon reaching the shores of Arda with the other Istari. She was not among the comrades of Mithrandir and Radagast, never visited the Hidden Realm of Elrond Half-elven, and nothing is said of her part in the Great Mission to unmake the One Ring. Was she meant to stir the hearts of the Men of the east and turn them from the enthralment of false promises rendered by Sauron? Was her purpose to assemble a vast army of doughty and devoted soldiers from among the nomads strewn in poorly organised clutches across the steppes east of the Aral Sea, leading them to the very gates of Baradûr? I know not, for none of those answers are recorded in the mythos of my family's past. Of this I can be certain, however; she failed.

It is for the most part a blessing that she was forgot so long ago, for the shame of her inability to manage her hormones and stick to her sworn duty is a naggingly rancourous flaw in her character. She fell to the same curse that claimed Melian: ensnared by the passion of love. At least Melian had enough sense to lose her heart to one of the First-born (although there were no humans at the time) and even though he was slain I am certain Thingol has been rejuvenated long centuries past and the couple are living carefree and content in the Undying Lands. My ancestor had to fall for a mortal, a nomad chieftain whose name was Arawaostra [Possessing a White Stallion].

Oh there is a romantic lay of epic length that is sung on the feast of the New Year to honour the progenitors of our lineage, and i am sure it is just as stirring to most as the endearing tale of Thingol frozen in a catatonic state for nearly an Age by the sight of Melian dancing in the woods. Our story claims Gelerah Abi entered the region on a camel's back, caught sight of the fine white stallion for which my ancestral patriarch was named, and promptly stole it. Well this initiated an exciting chase, or race, across the plains as Arawaostra sought to retrieve his magnificent steed. However, the horse was not prized for nothing and could not be caught, so swift was his flight.

Still, Arawaostra would not relent, though he was dismayed that his beautiful turf-bound Alborak, whom he had cherished since its birth, refused to heed his shouted commands to return, bringing the odious thief. Eventually, Gelerah Abi let Arawaostra catch her and courteously thanked him for allowing her to 'borrow' his mount, stating it was the most fun she had known in many Ages. He was of course smitten at once by her spectacular beauty, endearing smile, and incredible blue eyes.

Oh no, Gelerah Abi did not assume the form of an ancient, shrivelled crone; she presented the image of a woman in the first blush of fecundity. Short and slender she was with long brown hair and a rather hawk-like nose, high cheeks and of course the azure orbs. It is said Arawaostra first named her by remarking on this prominent and uncommon feature and no other appellation would she recognise after that. If she was known by some other designation in Aman, it was never revealed to her family.

The couple produced nine children and everything connected to the clan flourished and prospered. Our tribe became quite wealthy and influential, its members blessed with long life and hardy health, and even today my people are quite proud to trace their bloodlines back to this joyously intrepid pair. As for me, I find it distinctly irritating for such a huge histrionic fuss to be made over this rebel Maia and her tribal lord. Instead of taking their places upon the battleground and standing with the forces of Light, my ancestors fled north and hid in caves in the Hindu Kush mountains.

Apparently, Gelareh Abi was a pacifist, though I suspect a more likely explanation involves some close ties to Melkor's sidekick. I find it more believable that Sauron was either her brother or a former lover and she was supposed to make him see 'reason' and return to Valinor to face the righteous justice of the Powers. When it came down to it, she could not follow through, knowing the fate that awaited him; condemned to drift in formless comprehension of his bitter doom for all eternity until the end of days.

Well that was all many thousands of years ago and of course her tribal horse lord died in the normal course of time. What became of Gelareh Abi then? Did she stay and continue to aid the nomads she had adopted and the family she created? No, of course not. Just like Melian, she vanished without a trace, initiating yet another maudlin narrative song, this one proclaiming in glorious sorrow that she was consumed by her grief for the loss of Arawaostra. I know better; she skeedaddled back to Aman once all the fun was done, abandoning her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren to the rigours of life in post-Ring Arda.

Now you may well ask how I could possibly have such certainty about an event that occurred thousands of years before my own birth. The answer is not so simple and something I personally do not speak of often. It seems the addition of the substance of the lesser Ainur into the corporeal existence of mortals has some unusual and long lasting effects. Foremost among these aberrations is the knack for 'seeing' and I do not mean with the eyes.

Oh yes, every generation there is one born among the females of our line that has this dubious talent for observing past and present. Yet, it is not really an ability to picture events in fine detail such as might actually be beneficial, a useful instrument to forewarn of imminent danger. Perhaps my tribe might have been spared defeat by Alexander and the ravages of the Mongol raiders of the 13th and 14th centuries, for instance, had the Sight of Gelerah Abi prophesied the successive invasions of the Blue, White, and Golden Hordes.

But no, the 'gift' does not grant such glimpses of the future nor give flesh to the happenings of the past. Rather, I am treated to the unnerving vision of every single descendent and ancestor directly in my line, so that I can look both forwards and backwards and see who was there before and who is yet to come and take my place. The fact that many times this is the same individual, recycled over and over, is quite disturbing, especially when it is myself I am staring at. Sometimes I just want to reach out and slap those other cheeky 'Adarvan Banu's' [that is my name, means Protectress of Fire] who grin and wave at me.

In my native lands this uncanny aptitude is considered a mark of distinction and a sign that Gelerah Abi remains among her people in spirit to guide and succour them. Relatives sent letters and occasionally called on the phone, asking all sorts of questions and begging advice from me. As if I have any idea of whether someone should accept a job in a distant city or stay with the family herds, marry a banker or go study abroad! Pah! My own sisters only call me when they want to know about something going on in the 'other realm of  
being'.

Once I was old enough to state my own mind, I refused to admit to the gift at all, even among kinsmen, and turned from anything remotely mystical in nature. I went to University in Kabul and studied physics, then finagled a scholarship and a visa to continue my efforts in the United States. That was over twenty years ago, and I have not been back to Mazar-i-Sharif since.

I could not bear to, for so many of my kin have met untimely ends in the violence that has plagued Afghanistan through all the ages of recorded history, and this era is no different. How can I stand to read the obituaries and see the names of childhood friends, cousins, aunts and uncles, my nephews and nieces listed among the dead? What can I do to stop the disfigurement wrought by thousands of land mines still buried in villages, houses, on roads? And though I am loath to admit it, there is shame as well, for not all of my relatives have chosen the side of freedom and independence, abetting the cowardly foreign terrorists skulking in the very caves we utilised at the close  
of the Third Age.

The Sight of Gelareh Abi failed in predicting this as well.

I did not change my name, much, and it would be pointless to attempt hiding my slight accent, which I am told is rather charming. But I  
turned my face away from my homeland and focused instead on my passion for theoretical research. I have a very specific goal, a very personal and private one that meshes well with the stated scientific end toward which all my mind and will is bent. I study complex Fermi surfaces and their part in natural processes, and… Well, I will spare you the lecture and get to the point, which is that I am quite convinced that I can cross the dimensional divide separating the Blessed Realm from the rest of the world. I am about to pay a little visit to my great-great-great X 1,025 grandmother.

As I write this my heart is racing madly and I am not quite able to breathe at a normal rate, for I am not really sure what sort of  
reception I will receive. I am nervous. None of the Valar ever bothered to check up on my people and I have become convinced that dear Gelareh Abi failed to mention the progeny she left behind to struggle and suffer through all these long centuries. I do not know what I will say to her and rather fear that I will simply grab her by the neck and wring it like a chicken's.

Everything is ready, all my calculations checked and rechecked a dozen times or more, simulations run over and over to verify the accuracy of the transformation functions. All pertinent information regarding my research has been safely stowed in a portable jump drive now residing in a safety deposit box at my bank and a letter of instructions sent to my lawyer regarding what to do with it if I fail to make contact with him in two weeks time.

No use procrastinating any more; here we go.

It is quite painfully bright and there is an intermittent yet incessant screechy sort of wailing going on around me. God! That smell  
is obnoxious! And familiar.

Oh no.

A form takes shape above me; a silhouette of a stooping figure bending low but I still cannot make anything out of what this being is saying over the roar and crash of waves upon the reef and the mocking cries of the gulls and terns. I am at the seashore, stretched out upon this bit of rock exposed by the receding tide, wet and salty and miserable. The stink is from rotting seaweed and shrivelling sea cucumbers stranded high and dry under a blazing sun.

I absolutely despise water, being a fire-creature, and the ocean is my particular enemy, for I drowned in it when I was a child.

No, that cannot be correct; I grew up in a land-locked country surrounded by steep mountains and deep green valleys.

Didn't I?

"Are you well? Did your boat founder? How many others were with you? Can you understand me?"

The being with the shadowed features was speaking in a softly melodic voice that was now plainly audible above the racket of the breakers. A hand reaches toward me and instinctively I grab on and pull myself up. I stare at its owner.

Actually, I goggle with lips agape and tongue drooling. It seems my calculations were erroneous, for surely this is Apollo and I must therefore be in the abode of the gods of ancient Greece.

He is tall and absolutely the most stunningly sexy male creature I have ever had the privilege to examine this close. And, he is mostly naked, his bare chest all wet, the right nipple pierced with a little golden ring and oh so nicely peaked, little rivulets of sea water running down his smooth, flat belly to disappear in the fabric of equally soaked silk breeches that are clinging ever so perfectly to his generously proportioned genitalia. His hair is saturated and obscures part of this magnificent physique from me, lying over the skin of his left shoulder in a thick heavy drape. He gives his head a brisk toss and sends the streaming strands behind him to fall against his back with a substantial sounding thwack.

Oh, the left nipple is also adorned in gold.

"I cannot understand how you came to be stranded out here, for Ossë was given explicit instructions to allow a calm and placid crossing for all the guests," and he smiles apologetically from within concerned eyes far bluer than mine will ever be. With his right hand he pushes a reluctant lock still sticking to his cheek back behind a delicately leaf shaped ear. "I am Legolas; what category are you nominated for?"

"What?"

"Oh dear, perhaps you were underwater a bit too long. I shall take you to Elrond; he will give you a tonic that should perk you right up."

"What?"

He has taken firm hold of my arm now and is cautiously guiding me along the crest of the jagged stone. He keeps smiling but peers at me with obvious worry. Somewhere inside its convoluted curves, I am sure my brain has stored the names mentioned and is singing and dancing in victory for being right about the Fermi surface effect. Nobel Prize is in the bag after I publish the results of this little experiment. This thought, however, is languishing under the weight of my shock and less than seemly lustful hunger.

The elf does not seem to notice my blatant appraisal and leads me on to the most land-ward point of the treacherous spit. He lifts his slender hand to shield his vision from the glare of Anor and then waves it above his head to get the attention of a small figure seated in a boat bobbing in the water.

"Durin's Beard! You were right, I'll grant you that!" shouts the gruff voiced little man in the dinghy. "How you saw her from the cliffs, laid out flat as she was like a squashed bug, I still wonder about, for truly your eyes do not seem different from mine."

"What?" I shout, for the third time, "his eyes are nothing like yours!" Why his statement is so upsetting I have no idea.

"All right, lass, no insult was intended. Legolas, is she injured in the head?"

"Nay, Gimli, I do not think so, although she is not very coherent. I do believe Elrond should have a look at her before we assign quarters."

"Of course I am not injured! And I did not fall overboard for I came here in no boat," I have suddenly found my bearings and yank free of the elf's hand as I attempt to correct my soggy appearance. "I am Adarvan-Banu, descendant of the Maia Gelerah Abi. Take me to her at  
once!"

The dwarf and the elf are clearly surprised by this announcement and share a sidelong glance at one another. Gimli's brows go up and Legolas gives a minute shrug with one white wet shoulder that makes his pectoral muscle flex just enough to draw my attention back to that tiny ring of gold. I am wondering if I could poke my tongue through it and…

"…anyone by that name. Are you quite certain this person is one of the Istari?"

The elf has been speaking. I snap out of my lovely daydream to see them staring expectantly, awaiting some reply.

"Yes, of course I am sure. I am her direct descendant. She came to earth with Gandalf and Radagast and joined with a mortal man. When he died, she abandoned us to suffering and the torment and destruction of wars and starvation. She has much to answer for!"

"Indeed, as you say, I certainly understand your anger," Legolas is using a most irritatingly cajoling tone and he once more takes my arm and steers me toward the boat. "We will take you ashore and perhaps Lord Elrond may know of this person you seek."

"Do not humour me, elf!" I hiss and jerk loose from his grasp again. "I am not debilitated nor hallucinating; she is real and she is here. She must be!"

"Well you won't be finding her out on this reef, missy, so you'd best get in the boat and settle down," fumes the dwarf.

He makes a good point and so I comply; at once we are underway. Legolas takes the oars and I am treated to a heart palpitating example of elven strength and grace as his steady strokes rapidly propel the small craft through the waves to the sparkling shore. I cannot help but sigh as those lovely muscles in his arms and torso ripple and roll.

Again he does not notice my open admiration, and indeed will not look at me at all. It dawns on me that he is not talking to me either, and I realise how rude and unkind I have been. I have wounded his feelings when all he wished to do was help someone in need. I sigh again in regret and dismay.

In no time we land and Legolas leaps out into the waist-deep surf, grabbing the bowline and effortlessly pulling the craft onto the shingle. Gimli takes up the elf's discarded clothes and shoes and disembarks, offering his hand to assist me.

"This way, my Lady," he says and stalks off after his friend, who is striding up the saturated sand into the dunes without so much as a backward glance.

It is a very long walk and Legolas is soon out of sight as Gimli and I continue on at a more mortal rate of locomotion. The dwarf has been sending me some rather smugly appraising looks and finally I halt and fold my arms over my chest, waiting for whatever it is he feels the need to report.

"Well?" I goad and he merely smirks.

"You can look all you want."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't believe I need to explain it to you."

"You are wrong; I have no idea what you mean."

"It doesn't matter; everyone ogles him that way and he ignores it."

"I was not!"

"Aye, you were!"

"You are imagining things. Must be that famous dwarven jealousy. You are the one who can't take your eyes off him!"

"I am Legolas' best friend!" Gimli draws himself up to full stature and fixes me with a blazingly indignant glower, feeling at his hip for the handle of an axe that is not there. For which I am grateful, given the fury evident in his rapidly rising colour and flaring nostrils. "And he is not to my taste!"

"You are not to his, you mean!"

"Why you impudent wench! You are the one melting at the sight of a little golden hoop!"

"Nonsense! It is obvious you have been away from the world too long, for such things are very common in human society these days and not something I would be interested in anyway."

"I do not need the acuity of elven vision to know pure lust when it is right before my nose. Neither does he."

"He knows I was staring? He gave no indication…"

"Aha! So ye admit it! You want the fair one to sling you over his shoulder and carry you up into the heights of the canopy, there to ravish you for three days and four nights!"

"Well, I… I don't know about the tree-top bit, but…"

"Oh please! He could have had you right here and now on this very beach if he wished it! But I tell you this, he does not wish it!"

"That is completely rude and vulgar! How dare you! You uncouth, hairy…tree killer!"

"Tree killer?" the dwarf's eyes grow immensely round and then he throws back his head and roars with laughter. His long auburn beard wags and nods as his mirth spends itself. "Oh, lass, you are truly ignorant! That is no insult to a dwarf! Can you not do better?" He falls to laughing anew, clutching his gut and shaking his head.

"Oh %?#@&$/* !" I mumble this articulately offensive expletive in Dari and stomp off down the path, though I have no idea where it leads.

It soon became clear that the dwarf was not on my heels, but I proceeded anyway, confident I would meet someone sooner or later who would tell me the correct directions to my maternal ancestor's location. Before long the sand gave way to grass and the way branched. To the left the path changed from bare boardwalk to a sturdy stone-paved road. It passed beneath a simple yet elegant archway and followed the rising topography to the white limestone cliffs that bounded the headland.

I spy a house overlooking the sea and hasten toward it.

Did I use the word house? The Vanderbilt mansions could not compare, Windsor Castle is a barn next to it, the Taj Mahal might as well have been designed for your brother's pet dog. No where in any nation among any civilisation of humankind, past or present, was there a structure as magnificent as this.

It did not look constructed as we would employ such a word but ratherto be a natural formation of the cliffs upon which it stood, while yet possessing a grandeur and refinement beyond the rendering of geologic processes. It was as though intellect and grace had assumed substance and taken shape under the hand of an enlightened artist. It was at one and the same time like a cathedral and a comfortable haven, inspiring awe while extending welcome and offering refuge.

It beckoned; pristinely gleaming like the finest pearls, adorned with columned porticoes and gilded-iron balconies, twisting stairways and delicate arches. This jewel of architecture was set within gardens and groves, emerald lawns and flowing fountains, blue pools and trimmed hedges. I wander into its bewitching charm and instantly feel at ease; all my anger and discomfort over the journey and the dwarf's remarks fading away.

Indistinct voices draw me to the rear of the place and I spot two figures seated upon a stone bench beside a little pond almost covered in yellow water lilies and their plate shaped pads. They are elves, I surmise since no mortals could set foot upon the shores of the Undying Lands, one dark-haired and the other with pale golden tresses. The dark-haired one is bending close to the other and has an arm wrapped protectively about the fair one's shoulders, which are bare. As is the rest of him, I realise. It is Legolas and some predatory lecherous lout is feeling him up right in public!

Well, I know not what I did that caught their attention but together they train their eyes upon me and glare viciously.

"It is she." I hear Legolas murmur in aggrieved tones as he turns his face away and leans against his companion. My wrath toward this unknown elf's possessive contact vanishes at once for he immediately caresses Legolas' dripping locks and hugges him gently, whispering consoling words in his ear, which he then kisses. Legolas sighes as a shiver races through his svelte, naked body. The black-haired one stands and places himself between my line of sight and the kindly rescuer who came to my assistance. I stare up in trepidation, for this is an imposingly austere figure.

He is garbed in black leather from top to toes, the garments fitting as if poured over him rather than donned and laced. Boots sheathe his calves and shine with a military-grade polish worthy of pleasing the most exacting drill sergeant. Inky pants cling to every curve and angle, accenting a lithe frame of steely sinew and bone. Beneath his starkly simple tunic, which is sleeveless, he wears a shimmering silver shirt of fine silk with a high collar and flowing sleeves caught at the wrist with wide cuffs buttoned in beads of turquoise.

Locks the colour of a raven's plumage fall to his hips and are caught back from his face with an elaborate pattern of thin, scalp-hugging rows of braids. These begin from a widow's peak and frame his countenance to just above his ears. The close plaits end about two inches back from his hairline, the loose strands blending into the flowing bulk of glossy tresses. A breeze catches this silken mane and wafts it against the pale flesh of the dejected elf behind him.

I look upon aristocratic features of unsurpassed symmetry, save for his companion's; a noble visage that exudes a sense of antiquity and wisdom, intelligence and foresight. The eyes regarding me are fearsome to behold, for this is one irritated elf and his wrath is focused entirely in my direction. The orbs are the deepest black I have ever seen and so intense that I can not hold his gaze and lower my sight to the green blades beneath my feet.

"This is a private area," he speaks in cold, clipped tones. "Lord Elrond has been apprised of your arrival and awaits you in the formal courtyard at the entrance to his estate."

I can not find words. My tongue feels as if it is made of wool. I flick a quick glance at Legolas and find him peering at me through one eye from behind the shelter of his companion's physical barricade. He immediately ducks back out of sight, but not before I see the pained confusion in that single lapis iris. I sigh.

"It is that pathway, to your right," the dark-haired protector directs me with a dismissive gesture of his hand, which I notice is holding a blue cloth.

"Yes, of course, I did not intend to intrude," I bluster out at last and steal a look into those penetrating pitch depths. He is positively scowling, brows drawn down in threatening folds and lips compressed into a stark maroon line. I can not help but give a little gasp.

"I will go, but I do wish to apologise, Legolas!" The words begin tumbling out. "I should not have addressed you so, so…"

"Like a servant?" prompts the dark one.

"Ai! Erestor, that is too harsh," Legolas quietly asserts. "She was over-wrought, I am sure."

"That is no excuse," I shake my head vehemently. "Please, Legolas, I should have thanked you for your gallant actions instead of ordering you about. Can you forgive me?"

Instantly he jumps to his feet and treats me to a beatific smile as radiant as the noonday sun. And a full exposure to his exquisite physique in all its natural magnificence before Erestor hastily wraps the towel around the fair elf's slender hips and ruins my fun. Legolas' long-fingered hand extends toward me and when I place mine within his clasp he impresses upon it a chaste kiss.

"Think of it no more, for I have forgotten all about it," he says graciously.

I just grin back and cradle my tingling hand up against my heart.

"Hmmph!" Erestor sniffs and pulls his partner closer, holding the towel securely with one hand and encircling the archer's shoulders with the other. He gives me a less-searing glare and smiles thinly. "I am Erestor, Chief Counsellor to Lord Elrond of Cebir Fain [White Cliffs]."

"Just Elrond will do, thank you," sounds a regal voice behind me, "and you are foremost my friend and kinsman, Erestor, in this villa on the shores of Eldamar."

I turn to behold a venerable elf, lesser in height than Erestor but somehow far more august in manner and bearing. He is dressed formally in elegant burgundy robes of silken velvet embroidered in silver threads like a Shah from the court of Cyrus in Persia. His hair is the colour of rich mahogany wood and simply controlled in a loose knot at the nape of his neck. His eyes are grey like storm-tossed skies and he gazes upon me with an expression both relentlessly penetrating and infinitely compassionate. His smile is genuine and kind and I find myself returning it spontaneously.

"Mae Govannen, Hendu Ulban [Blue Eyes (Quenya)]; please excuse my husband's momentary lapse in courtesy. Your arrival is most surprising and intriguing, and I fear Elrond is attempting to map your thoughts."

These words are voiced by a stately and elegant Lady of royal mien and carriage upon the elven Lord's right hand. She is slightly taller and looks like an empress, like a portrait I saw once of Josephine, her rust-red hair caught up in elaborate twists and trailing tendrils, dotted with little colourless jewels that surely must be diamonds. Her attire is equally ornate and the gauzy gown is the exact hue of sunflowers. "I am Celebrian, your host for the day. Please, will you join us on the terrace for refreshment?"

"Why thank you," I am being careful to speak pleasantly even though this genteel elven Lady has just called me something I cannot interpret in her lilting tongue. "I am Adarvan-Banu, descendant of the Maia known among my people as Gelerah Abi." I correct her as politely as I know how and she smiles gently.

"Of course! Forgive me for using the ancient speech," her rosy cheeks dimple when she smiles and her green eyes dance in merriment. "Please be seated and rest."

I have no recollection of how I was directed to the quaint patio paved with slabs of pink fossiliferous limestone, but everyone followed.  
Elrond and his Lady sat together in a bent-willow glider, hand in hand, and set to swinging at once. Erestor straddled a cushioned chaise and pulled Legolas down in front of him, still holding to the towel. They fussed over it a bit, four hands fiddling and interfering and shoving the other's away, trying to get it snugly tied. Once Erestor was satisfied the skimpy covering would preserve his companion's modesty, he retrieved a golden comb from a pocket in his tunic and began carefully grooming the sopping tangles of Legolas' hair.

A contented sigh escapes the blonde elf and he smiles hazily at me through half-closed eyes.

I sit down on a comfortable fan-backed chair and return my attention to my host and hostess.

"It is an amazing likeness," Elrond states abruptly and looks to his wife for confirmation, receives it, and scrutinises me thoroughly. "And you say it is mere coincidence you arrived here just as the barrier has been temporarily removed? Fascinating! And without a boat! How, then, did you make the crossing?"

"The barrier is dismantled?" Elrond's comment makes my heart sink. If the shield was inoperable anyway then my experiment has failed. I did not cross the dimensional divide after all, for it was not there.

"Indeed, for only the second time since it was initiated," confirms Celebrian. "We are having a small celebration in honour of our human  
fans."

I have a bizarre picture in my mind of people clutching palm fronds, whirling their arms ridiculously and shake my head to banish the image.

Before I can enquire further, two more elves exit the house through long, opened windows that reach from floor to ceiling. Twin elves. Dark haired and dark eyed, noble and beautiful, well-built, powerful and…and they are smirking in identical bemusement at my slack jawed leering. I clamp my lips together as the temperature in the vicinity rises significantly. These two are enough to make me forget all about my slender, nearly-naked saviour from the shore.

"Estë will be along momentarily," states one of these ebony-haired gods, addressing the assembly in general. "She was working with Tilion again regarding his unrequited love for Arien."

"Hannad, Elladan," Elrond nods and motions toward me with his free hand. "May I present Adarvan-Banu. My eldest son, Elladan, and his twin brother Elrohir."

"Suilad," they say in unison and bow, and Elrohir gallantly captures my hand for a lingering kiss during which his smouldering eyes of infinite onyx plunder mine and leave me breathless.

"Oh, pleased, pleased to meet you," I stammer.

"By the stars, Legolas, have you not dried off yet? I have never known an elf with such a proclivity for going unclad!" Elladan jibes and moves to sit on the end of the chaise. He reaches for the towel and Erestor slaps his hand away, an ominous sounding growl issuing from his throat.

"My hair is still wet. What good is it to put on fresh clothes when they would just get soaked in minutes?" Legolas justifies his nudity.

"Aye, it is all right, Pen-rhovan," murmurs Erestor and takes a taste of his partner's ear. "This is your home; you need not explain anything to them." He gives a stern "hands off" look as Elrohir approaches and leans against a lovely potted lemon tree.

"If I might suggest," Elrond clears his throat to get our attention, for everyone's eyes seem locked upon the tented blue towel that has now ridden up so high that it barely manages to hide the archer's scrotum, "perhaps you two might continue the forepl…"

"Hair grooming," Celebrian inserts quickly with a sweet smile.

"Yes, hair grooming, of course, my Love. Erestor, a more appropriate location needs to be found. Immediately."

"Very well," Erestor sounds haughty and offended, and indeed is actually staring down his nose as he rises and helps his partner up, gently readjusting the towel into a less provocative orientation. This causes Legolas to utter a poorly controlled moan as his mate wraps both arms around him; one caresses the left pectoral and its hard red bud, the other splays out over the lean abdominals, third finger slipping inside Legolas' navel.

"I shall take Legolas down by the brook. You are welcome to join us if you wish," he states this with dead-pan features as he meets first my gaze and then Elrohir's.

"Oh, for the love of Elbereth," Elrond mutters and rolls his eyes. Celebrian giggles and squeezes his hand.

"All right, perhaps we shall!" Elrohir says boldly and grabs his brother's arm, lifting him to his feet.

Legolas has gone all pink and his ears are bright scarlet as he glances toward me, dropping his eyes as soon as they meet mine.

"I would not mind, that is; you are welcome to come, too," he says softly and manages to sound simultaneously shy and completely lascivious.

"Oh," is all I can manage to get out. My face feels feverish and I am sure must be beet red.

"That is a fine idea!" Elrohir crows as Elladan snickers. "You can come with us, Adarvan; in fact, we shall take you there!"

"Enough!" booms Elrond. "You are making our guest uncomfortable. Away with you!" He stands and shoos the lovebirds with his hands and all four of them amble off toward a stand of poplar trees at the far end of the garden. Once he is certain Erestor is not going to claim his lover on the lawn within our sight, he returns to his seat and sends me a rueful smile. "I do apologise; Legolas is a hopeless exhibitionist and Erestor encourages him. My sons cannot resist the show."

"I see," I say, wishing I could.

Before any more is said on the subject we are joined by a mild-featured middle-aged woman dressed in a style reminiscent of the saris worn by women in India. She has a lovely salmon coloured chiffon scarf, edged all around in exquisite bead-work, draped over her auburn hair, round her neck, and flowing over her right shoulder. She is small and thin with brown liquid eyes as gentle as a doe's and a dark red dot on her forehead. She joins her hands before her chest and bows politely.

"Welcome, welcome," she intones when she straightens up. "I am called Estë."

Now this is not what I imagined one of the Valar would look like. Elrond's wife is more the picture of majesty and might than this frail looking woman with her humble manner. I probably did not hide my surprise very well for Celebrian giggles again as she stands up.

"Elrond and I have some things to attend to, Adarvan; we will leave you with our esteemed guest."

"What things?" demands Elrond. "Celebrian, I am a healer and this is an intriguing case. Mayhap I could learn something of value by observing Estë's treatment."

"My Love, how can you be so forgetful? You promised to take me on a picnic by the waterfall," says his noble Lady innocently and I cannot help but laugh as Elrond's eyes pass over her in honest appreciation. He does not debate her and together they head off across the lawn toward the front of the house, sans picnic basket.

"I am not sure what sort of case he was referring to," I turn to find the Vala appraising me. "I assure you, I am uninjured. I simply wish to meet Gelerah Abi and have my complaints heard."

"Yes, he instructed his sons to tell me so. Elrond uses clinical terminology when everyday words will suffice; think nothing of it. Walk with me and tell me of your life."

I do as she says and before long we have left Cebir Fain far behind. I talk and talk, spilling out all my frustration and anger, sorrow and grief concerning the terrible struggle my people face and have endured over the long centuries since our ancestor's disappearance. As we stroll, the scenery changes, for we are travelling inland, and pass through small towns and villages surrounded by cultivated fields and lush groves of fruit trees. It is peacefully bucolic and the complete absence of machinations allows the calls of birds mingling with the song of the elves to carry throughout the countryside. I have never known a more contented feeling.

Soon the land begins to rise and I discover that we are actually moving along very swiftly for the ocean has receded and even the scent of its salty breath can no longer be detected in the air. Next I see below me a tremendous forest as vast as the jungles of the Amazon, a billowing and rolling ocean of greenery that stretches right to the feet of a range of mountains so high their peaks are hidden in the clouds.

I startle, for I truly am above those tree's tops, walking literally on the air!

"Do not be alarmed, Adarvan; it is natural for you to do so here," says Estë softly.

She begins to descend and takes me with her, but instead of finding our feet on the forest floor we land amid a tropical garden that would put Eden to shame. It is like an oasis, with a cool spring fed pool surrounded by palm trees and rushes. It occurs to me that this must be Lorien, the realm of Irmo. We sit at the water's edge and Estë begins to sing to me, but there are no words to the tune and the harmony seems to be made up of her living substance rather than merely her breath upon the air. It is a soothing and comforting song, however, and I succumb to sleep.

I dream of Gelerah Abi. I see what she saw, hear as she listened, and the words she speaks come forth in my own voice. I meet Arawaostra and am consumed by the passion Gelerah Abi felt for this magnetic and inspiring personality. I relive his demise and the sorrow of a broken heart. The future rolls on, though for me it is the past, and I must witness anew all the atrocities my beloved nomads have been subjected to for time out of mind. I rage inwardly, desiring nothing more than to make it stop, to take them away and safeguard them forever, these remnants of my beloved's bloodline. Through them, some part of his essence yet lives and I am weary of seeing them come to harm.

There is no knowing how long this takes, for when I awake it is still bright and sunny in the garden. I am weeping, for now I know the truth and must bear the guilt and shame of my failure. I am the one who refused to stand against Sauron, rationalising this choice by claiming to fear for the losses my adopted human tribe would suffer. It is I who doomed my own offspring to their horrendous and pointless existence, struggling to live only to die and vanish from all knowledge forever. I am Gelerah Abi, the Blue Wizard, and I failed in my duty and defied the will of Iluvatar.

I remember now, too clearly, how I demanded of Manwë one last chance to redeem my brother, and how devastated I was by Sauron's mocking refusal when I met with him in Baradûr. Yet only my children suffered for my errors for I hid among the mortals rather than face my defeat and accept the just censure of The One. How shall I live with this knowledge? Why can I not die as they do and follow them? Why must I be forever sundered from Arawaostra?

"It is the way of things, yet not all is as bleak as you fear. We know not every thought in the heart of Eru, for not even with Manwë does he share everything," Estë answers and I comprehend that I have shouted those questions aloud, pounding my fist against the soft earth until it is stained with green and brown.

"It is not fair!"

"No, but that is because you judge by the pain in your own soul. Who can say what is best for the children you left behind? The place they go when death frees them is not a place of dread; Iluvatar is a loving father and these also are his children, even as are you. My child, do you not feel that you have suffered enough? When shall you cease punishing yourself for the design of the Second Born's fate? No matter what you did during your time on earth, that was decided without your input."

<i>Be at peace. The ones you love are not lost and their suffering is small in comparison to the joy I grant them for all eternity. You will be re-united with them again, Adarvan. As for Sauron, it was an error for Manwë to agree to your pleas, yet even by this arose a new theme in the Music, and it is beautiful beyond words, for your descendants are a new breed, an evolution of spirit and flesh unforeseen by any except myself. Great is their glory in the circles beyond the bounds of this world. I thank you, Gelerah Abi, for this interlude.</i>

These thoughts flow within mine and I heed them, for it must be Eru's own voice speaking within my soul. A great relief washes through me, the forgiveness of Iluvatar, and flushes away the angry shame and guilt. I find that I can think on my beloved and smile rather than grind my teeth in impotent rage.

I throw my arms around Estë's shoulders and laugh gleefully and she joins in, hugging me just as tightly. Then a sobering thought invades my happiness and I fear to ask her what I must.

"Nay, you may not return to earth again. It is for the best as you will see. Trust in Iluvatar's promise; you will ride with your proud horse-herders again someday. For now, there is much to see and do here."

"Oh my! The jump drive!" I have just remembered the stored explanation for my disappearance, having determined that my research probably is accurate. As a Maia I never required the aid of those exacting calculations, but a human certainly would. And given what I learned of the barrier during the aeons before landing at Mithlond with Aiwendil and Mithrandir, I am more sure than ever that my instructions will produce results. Aman is about to be stormed by the masses of 21st century earth!

"I must return and gather the research I have left behind, for anyone wise enough could easily utilise it and break the barrier of separation!" I am on my feet and pulling her roughly by the arm.

"Ai! Be calm, it has already been attended to!"

"What? How so, I have not even told anyone here about it yet."

"My dear, you talk in your sleep and for that I am thankful! Do you realise you were lost in the healing trance for eight days? There was barely enough time to organise a mission to retrieve the vital data before your lawyer would have revealed it to all the world, as your orders demanded!"

"But, how? Who went and what did they do about the key to the safety deposit box? I seem to have lost it during the transition from earth to Aman."

"Yes, that was a sticky point, but we found a bold and determined pair to take the challenge and all is well. You see, Erestor got a bit out of sorts during the awards when some of the writers started up a discussion of who the best lover is for Legolas.

"It seems that the twins, whether individually or both together, always topped the list with Aragorn next. Haldir and Elrond tied for third place while Glorfindel and Boromir took fourth. Lindir, Rumil, and Orophin all placed fifth, sixth and seventh; Eomer, Faramir, and Gandalf took eighth, Gimli and various less than likely candidates came in nineth. Erestor and Thranduil ended up tied in last place.

"Neither of them were very pleased, I must report. Thranduil has threatened to sue the Tolkien estate for not publishing any of the in-depth character studies JRR wrote concerning him, none of which depict him as a molester of the young and innocent, especially his own offspring.

"Erestor was merely hurt that he had such a bad reputation as cold, aloof, and alternately sexually repressed or predatory. Besides, he simply cannot abide the idea of being last in line where Legolas is concerned.

"Thus, Manwë decided to send those two to filch the jump drive. It was a successful endeavour despite the fact that Legolas was wounded when a bank guardsman shot him in the leg. It seems Erestor did not manage to disconnect all the trip wires. The poor dear is hobbling around on a crutch, otherwise known as Erestor, and should be healed up in a couple of days."

I had to laugh at the mental image of that pair pulling off a real Hollywood movie style caper. I had but one question left for Estë as we walked from the garden into the fringes of the forest.

"Who won the writing competition?"

"Oh, my dear, they are all winners! We quite enjoy the loving care they lavish upon us from afar. It is so nice to be kept vitally alive in the present generation, and I am certain it will always remain thus thanks to the inspiring words of Master Tolkien."

I smile and agree with her. Just then a loud trumpeting call sounds amid the trees and I turn to see a magnificent white stallion thundering through the woods. Astride his back is a dashing figure in form-fitting hunting garb, armed with bow and quiver, long black hair streaming in the wake of their passing. He glances at me briefly as they race away and halt just ahead. He slides from the steed's back and swaggers toward us, smiling ferally.

"And who is this?' I whisper to Estë.

"It is Mairo [Horseman], Oromë and Vána's son," she says just loud enough for me to hear.

We share cunning smiles comprised of purely feminine wiles and I bolt, streaking by the surprised son of Tauron and Lady Vána, making for the horse. The charger sees me and seems to understand, for he does not move a muscle until I vault onto his back. Then we are away in a burst of flying hooves and a resounding whinny, and I laugh to hear Mairo shouting and whistling for his prized stallion in vain.

Mayhap I will name our first son Arawaostra.

The End.


End file.
